


The Long-Term

by KJGooding



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, Healing, Post-Canon Cardassia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJGooding/pseuds/KJGooding
Summary: Elim Garak steals an unfinished program from the Infirmary archive before leaving for Cardassia; it does little to soothe his open wounds.
Relationships: Elim Garak & Kelas Parmak, Julian Bashir & Elim Garak
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	The Long-Term

Chief O’Brien made no move to stop him, and, somehow, that made it worse. 

Garak was snooping around the computer core - it seemed everything was left disgustingly unprotected and understaffed, these days - and when O’Brien saw him, he merely sighed. The two of them exchanged shrugs, one of Garak’s favorite human gestures, vague and unassuming, and he continued to paw at the selection of data-rods plugged into the mainframe. 

“I could call that in as an act of war,” observed the Chief, adding a sarcastic huff to the end. “Tampering with Starfleet medical intelligence, that’s a big one. That’s not like you, Garak… stealing in broad daylight? You aren’t ill, are you?”

Garak did not gamble on repeating the shrug, afraid it would lose its effectiveness. Instead, he smirked.

“Perhaps I’ve lost my touch,” Garak said. 

And that was it. O’Brien half-committed to laughing, Garak removed the particular rod he wanted, and slipped out of sight.

***

Saying goodbye to Doctor Bashir later that week occupied his mind like a fog, to the point he could not recall exactly what words they had exchanged. How unlike him, indeed. It would have been too desperate, too cloying, for him to engrave each little tip of Bashir’s chin, each mumbled syllable, each sweet hum he used to fill the gaps when he was nervous, each… 

Perhaps he remembered more than he thought he did. The stolen data rod waited inside his coat pocket for the whole of the interaction, and when he finally arrived in his ravaged shack on Cardassia, he put it to immediate use. 

It was better this way, Garak assured himself. Why subsist on old memories of unrealized potential, when he could have instant - if impersonal - reassurance? Cardassians had starved themselves for years, and Garak was about to try his hand at rationing. 

The program was a prototype, Garak knew that. Only partially finished and then sealed away behind several layers of security clearance. He could override these with ease, after his brief stint with the Federation offensive. It was almost laughable. It was tragic, too, and before Garak could decide which way he, himself, was feeling, the program clicked into life. 

“Good afternoon,” the hologram said. “I am your L M H--”

It spoke the letters in slow, detached fashion, causing Garak to hear his given name. He gave the thought a bitter laugh, and waited to hear the rest of the program’s speech.

“That is,” the projection went on, “your Long-term Medical Hologram. It is my top priority to keep you in the best of health, both physical and mental. If there is--”

Garak could not help but choke back a sob. It began as a smile, a fond recollection coming unbidden to the surface, but Garak could not let it through. 

“...anything I can do…?” Julian trailed off, and waved one flickering hand to regain Garak’s attention. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“You sound nothing like him,” Garak explained, with his finger already hovering over the power switch. 

“I tend to ramble,” the projection said, in place of a proper apology. That was more accurate, Garak thought, sliding his fingernail just out of reach of the button. “What is your emergency; why have you activated me?”

Garak pondered this. He could deny any need, he could invent an invisible ailment, or he could try to curb his addiction before any negative effects set in. It was still early, but he knew his behavior well enough after all his years. He would chase the good feelings, the gentle reassurance, until he had no choice but to overindulge. 

“I just wanted to see you again,” Garak explained. 

Then he promptly switched the program off. 

***

The more Garak used the program, the less comparable he found it to the pleasant numbing effects of his former Wire. He never should have made that comparison, but it was subconsciously done. Both produced hollow sensations, but in vastly different ways. 

At least the Wire made his punishment tolerable. This unfinished program alternated between reassurance and abandonment, and Garak had endured quite enough of that throughout his lifetime, already. That was the way of things. 

One morning, Garak rolled uncomfortably from his cot, and switched it on right away. Julian’s image gradually brightened and seemed to solidify, and it inspected its surroundings. Its smile was incessant but not quite as genuine, of course, and Garak scoffed at it. Eventually, its focus caught up with the source of the sound, and it gave Garak its best ‘concerned’ look. 

“You’ve injured yourself,” it said. “May I see your arm?”

“Be my guest,” Garak replied, trudging forward and offering his arm forward. “I haven’t slept well in many years, I’m afraid, and last night seems to have finally slid the  _ kotra  _ pegs into a  _ truly  _ offensive pattern.”

“I apologize, but it seems that reference is not contained in my database.”

“I put too much weight on my shoulder. It’s numb,” Garak said, wishing the feeling extended to more of his body, mind, and very soul. All those years with Julian had taught him to open himself to feeling, and now the need sat unsatisfied.

“Oh, of course.”

The LMH touched the sore spot gingerly. In fact, Garak did not feel any pressure there at all.

“Your program is intended to occupy a physical space within a limited plane, is it not?” Garak muttered to himself, twisting his head until a joint in his neck cracked, so he could watch the LMH tend to his shoulder. 

Julian had to pause his ministrations, and some of his speech was stunted. It was endearing in its own way, but it was only a stranger’s impression of Julian, after having known him for a short time. Garak had known him for nearly a decade, and the trick did not work.

“I am running on… yes, reserve power,” the program replied, with another poor impression of Julian’s trademark grin. It should have felt smug and friendly all at once, but Garak felt nothing. “I am not familiar with the computer core you are using, but I can assure you… allowing me to operate at my highest capacity would plunge this entire block of flats into darkness. I daresay.”

“Do you, indeed?” Garak asked, swiveling so his arm was out of the LMH’s reach. “Let’s do that, then. My shoulder is  _ quite  _ sore…”

It was just like increasing the intensity on his Wire, Garak somberly thought, as he used his fingernail to manipulate the dial. The power switch itself was housed inside the circle, and Garak spun it as far forward as it would go. 

At last, he felt a physical warmth against his aching joints. And, as promised, the overhead lights crackled and burned out. Garak felt like he was standing outside in a glorious rainstorm, extinguishing the fires and drenching his abused skin, warming him to his core. 

The darkness was not as well received by his neighbors. But only one of them was brave enough to share their opinion. He heard a loud rap at his door - the electronic chime had fizzled out with the rest of the powerbank - and chuckled to himself when Julian went to answer it. The projection had a much greater range of motion, now, and a slightly broader smile. 

“Hello,” it said to the visitor, “how are you? I am this facility’s L M H, the--”

“ _ Elim _ ,” the visitor snapped, shoving the LMH aside. “I  _ thought _ this might be your doing.”

Garak recognized the visitor quickly; it was difficult to forget one’s former interrogation subject. And, of course, there were not many androgyne Cardassians in this scarce post-war era, who wore their hair wastefully long, and practiced medicine on others as if their own life depended on it.

“Doctor Parmak, hello. I’m very sorry; I was having a consultation. I can repair the generator right away, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Consultation?” Parmak’s voice softened, “Elim, are you quite well?” 

“I believe so, yes. And that, by its nature, makes my suspicion true.”

“Come and sit down over here. Heavens, I wouldn’t expect you to be the type to keep your home in such a state.”

“Hmm?”

“You aren’t well at all,” Parmak diagnosed him without further study, but still brought him to sit on the cot situated at the side of the cluttered room. 

The LMH followed at a curious, respectful pace, committing all of this to his digital memory. 

“May we have some privacy, please?” Parmak asked, sounding impatient. 

The LMH took a single, stuttering step backward, and hung its head to apologize. 

“I am a doctor,” it offered a scripted reply. “Or I was modeled after one, anyway. Doctor Julian S. Bashir, originally stationed at the Federation space station Dee--”

“ _ Elim _ ,” Parmak sighed again, sat down beside him, and gently touched his shoulder. The sore one, too; Garak winced and then corrected himself. “How long has this been going on?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

Parmak held both of Garak’s shoulders and managed to look him in the eye. Their association had never been an easy one, but if Garak’s indulgence was punishment, Parmak’s was pity. 

“Oh, Elim. This won’t get you anywhere, my dear.”

This time, when Garak intended to sob, the end result was an exhausted smile. The sound died somewhere in his throat, and he coughed and set his expression into a hopeless one, his dry lips curling upward only in search of comfort. 

“When will you allow yourself  _ real  _ joy?” Parmak went on.

“I am sure I could put you in touch with a counselor,” the LMH offered, but no one turned to look at it. 

“I can handle that, thank you,” Parmak said. 

With their eyes still gently focused on Garak’s, Garak found the strength to switch the program off. The overhead lights remained off, due to the unexpected surge and damage all of this had burdened the generator with, but Garak did not mind. Cardassian vision was clearest in darkness, and Parmak’s touch was somehow more warm and genuine than Garak had felt before. One could enjoy a rainstorm one day, and the shelter of an umbrella the next, when the novelty had worn off. 

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Garak said. “I would be most appreciative.”

***

It took three weeks for Parmak’s offer of help to come to fruition. They sent numerous communiques and arranged shuttle transport, and booked passage for two individuals Garak desperately needed to see. 

Bashir strode into Garak’s now acceptably organized apartment like he owned the place, and dropped his two suitcases to the ground in favor of an enthusiastic hug. Garak did not mind the temporary constriction, as he soon offered Bashir a place to sit and unpack his things and take his evening meal. The two of them spent the evening talking like old friends, communally teasing the LMH as Garak switched it on in illustration of how far he had fallen. Then, in perfect response to this cue, Counselor Dax chimed at the front door and was welcomed in to join them. 

Garak felt strange in anyone’s company, let alone surrounded by three people who vowed to help him purely because they cared about him. 

He was ready to overcome his addiction to temporary, artificial joy. He knew it would be a long journey, but it was one he deserved to undertake. 

Bashir patted his back, moved to squeeze his shoulder in a friendly embrace… then he paused, without prompting. 

“How long have you been favoring this arm?” he asked, eyes widening with concern. 

Garak admitted the pain had lasted several weeks, and thanked Bashir for his perceptiveness and unending capacity to care. 

“Please. I’m trying to be more modest,” Bashir teased, tending to Garak’s shoulder with a whirring regenerator. 

“Don’t dilute yourself on my account,” Garak said earnestly. “I can promise you, your digital counterpart did not share a mere  _ fraction  _ of your warmth or enthusiasm, and I did not care for that at all.”

“Hmm,” Bashir hummed, because he did not want the interaction to lapse into silence. 

Garak smiled, and allowed himself to be cared for.    
  


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